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Birth of a Phone Sex Slut

By: Doxy Wringer


These days I hear scores of people regularly debunk phone sex:

"It was great when I was a kid, but it just doesn't do it for me anymore."

"Talking about it just isn't a substitute for the real thing."

When I hear statements like this, I inevitably reach one conclusion: they are just doing it wrong. 

Yes yes yes, I know. Logically, I acknowledge that it's just not that simple. Sexuality is a very individual thing, yadda yadda yadda. What works for one person won't necessarily work for another, etc. etc. etc. 

And, I admit that while I usually am inclined to blissfully revel in the enjoyment I glean from my little phone sex fetish, I do harbor that scattering of doubt in the back of my mind that maybe it is something juvenile I just can't turn loose. However, as I approach the age of thirty and try to condition myself to the realities of being a grown-up, I've begun to realize, surprisingly, that I just don't care if it's juvenile or not. 

I still love phone sex. Call it a fetish. Call it an addiction. Call it whatever you want, but it is simply a necessary staple of my personal sensuality. 

Recently, a friend timidly asked me how I began having this phone sex I own up to so freely. It took me a long, hard think to pinpoint the memory. 

A veteran of long-distance relationships, I've always been able to generate a great deal of self-pleasure for myself. I was a very tactile child - I remain a very tactile adult, enjoying textures and sensations on a level that remains almost girlishly silly. I still feel a tingle of excitement in my belly when I fill up a bathtub full of soapy suds, because I know what my slippery body is going to experience in that wet blanket of water.

I find nothing shameful or lacking when I admit that a great deal of the time, I enjoy being my own lover.

But, it isn't just the continuing thrill of sexual self-worship that makes phone sex such a decadent delight for me. It's the power of it. The freedom of it. The joining of so many elements. My body experiences precise, powerful pleasures; my imagination romps in all its sexual naughtiness; my soul connects with a partner on the most basic and intellectually sensualistic level.

It is that connection that makes all the difference between my wicked little bubble baths and my phone sex crazes. It is that connection which turns my little fetish from juvenile fun into a high that rivals heroin dependency. 

In phone sex there are no positions too difficult to get into. No body parts too big or two small to cause discomfort or frustration. There is no being "too rough" or "not rough enough." There is just sweet fantasy. I can be the ultimate fantasy girl, and he can be the ultimate fantasy guy.

So, I imagine it is somewhat ironic that my first introduction to phone sex was with another girl. 

Just HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, KIDDO! It's not what you're thinking.

In my adolescence (and truthfully, throughout my life) I have always had difficulty making female friends. The guys I had covered. Guys are easy. They don't plot. They don't catfight. They rarely make the effort to betray intentionally. Men are just horny little mutts. You feed them, you cuddle them, you pat them on the head and tie them to trees. They're relatively simple. But, relationships between women are multi-leveled and complicated. It is work. And, for the most part, I just don't understand most women. I love the women friends I have, but they are far outnumbered by my men friends. 

This is significant because in order to preserve a friendship with a girl, I would regularly dash though hoops - a behavior normally way out of my character, even as a young girl. For some reason I emerged from the womb possessed of a rather ostentatious nature that never sought approval. But, certain types of females who have enjoyed posing as my friends down the years always seem to have a knack to transform me from my customary self-contentment into a fetch-and-carry worry wart automaton.

Kay was one of those girls. She was plain and clever and utterly commanding of my attention. For a stretch of time in my teenage years, I wouldn't listen to anything bad about her. I was blind to her theatrical and selfish antics, I wouldn't acknowledge her rude (and often cruel) behavior to my other friends, and I couldn't believe her spiteful betrayals were intentional. I was married to excuses, denial, and theories of coincidence allowing me to merely brush aside all her shortcomings and insist that I was the only one who really understood her.

Of course, what I understand now is that Kay was probably one of the most sexually confused and frustrated teenagers in the 1980s (and that's saying a lot). She was plain, and that caused her some minor trouble with the opposite sex - but she was also confrontational and smug which made her utterly unpopular. Her friends consisted of one person: me. 

So, it only made sense that when she came to desire a sex life, it would be necessary for me to supply that as well. 

Although I suppose I've painted a rather unpleasant picture of Kay, the truth was that she wasn't some evil comic-book villainess. She was in most ways a normal teenager with normal girlish fantasies and desires. She wanted her own Prince Charming on his white steed to sweep her off her feet and whisper all the endearments most teenage girls want to hear. It didn't seem too much to hope for as a teenager - the right guy who said all the right things. Indeed, there are times when it doesn't seem too much to hope for even as an adult. 

And so, one night while burning up the phone lines (we were also normal teenage girls in that respect - we spent HOURS on the phone) Kay asked rather innocuously if I would tell her a story. 

Even then, I had an affinity for making up tales. I told the best ghost stories, made up the best excuses to get us out of class - so why not the best romance stories? Why not the best sexual fairy-tales?

And so, we regularly engaged in this bizarre sort of role-playing, using character names instead of our own. Different settings: medieval castles, deserted islands, and wild west ranches. But always the same. Girl meets boy. Boy woos girl. Girl and Boy get it on. Happy endings regularly included weddings and babies. 

And, of course, provided with the sweet anonymity of the telephone without having to look at one another, we both repeatedly enjoyed ourselves sexually during the "naughty scenes." 

There could be an argument made that it was the ultimate ideal in safe sex for teenagers. The problem was that as we got older, I began having actual sexual experiences and Kay did not. My perception of sex matured. Hers remained unrealistic and, oftentimes, embittered. And the wedge she forced into our friendship made the girlish intimacy required for our stories impossible to maintain.

By the time the friendship was over and I had to face the reality of Kay's nature, I'd all but forgotten about the excitement those phone sessions had given me.

I fumbled though my teenage sexuality as most girls do. There was good and bad, although after comparing my experiences to those of other women I know, I think the vast majority of mine was positive and good. But, as a girl I never felt in control of my sexuality. Not as I had in the safety of those stories with Kay. 

Then, some years later, I found myself tangled in a long distance relationship where the yearning for physical intimacy was almost overwhelming. Again, I felt out of control. And so, we began murmuring sexually to each other. And I rediscovered that lost power. I rediscovered the enjoyment I could give myself, and the ability to connect with a partner who isn't in the same room. Who isn't even in the same state.

As time has pressed on, I have found that phone sex is not a substitute for physical intimacy. No matter how good phone sex is, you still have the animal urge to fuck and be fucked - as well as the human urge to love and be loved. Nothing replaces physical contact and intimacy. 

But, phone sex is still a powerful element of my personal sexuality. It is still an active, demanding aspect of my sexual drive. I crave the fantasy and the power, and the connection. I still love that I can crawl into a man's imagination and allow him to crawl into mine and commune on a level that is so very intimate and yet completely fantastical.

The truth is, I don't know that I could give it up if I had to. I like it. I crave it. And, fuck it, I'm good at it.

I have long listened to the debates about whether phone sex is "cheating" or not. My personal definition has always been if one partner thinks it is cheating, then it is - period. And there is a danger to it, for it is easy to fall in love with that fantasy partner. You don't have to deal with their every-day quirks or faults. They never have to deal with yours. Love and romance from a distance is easy. And I guess the reasons we disavow any participation in it is because we've all woken up to reality and felt more than a little sheepish about transferring our emotions onto a disembodied voice.

But, it's still real. It's fulfilling. It's just not the same as a one-on-one relationship. It isn't a substitute, it's a supplement. And it's addicting. 

But, obviously, only if you're doing it right. 



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